My Harp Will Go On
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: Introducing the crackiest fic ever, in which Jehan plays a kidney tubule, Grantaire plays Titanic music on a harp, Enjolras can't think of a band name, and Combeferre wants to know why in the hell he's friends with these people.


**A/N: So after careful consideration, and the collaboration of a lifetime with the ever fabulous, punnier-than-Victor-Hugo-could-ever-dream-of-being , supermegafoxyawesome hot _inthelookingglass_, I would like to present to you the crackiest fic ever. PLEASE DON'T TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY OMFG IT'S NOT A SRS FIC GUISE. Jehan plays a kidney tubule (don't fucking ask ok), Grantaire plays Titanic music on a harp and makes bad puns (MY HARP WILL GO OOOOONNNN), and Combeferre just really wishes all of his friends weren't such idjits. Enjoy.**

**Note: It mentions Jehan's poem, which is from another collab fic that _inthelookingglass_ published. Link at the bottom.**

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Combeferre let out a world-weary sigh and sank lower into his chair so that only the very top of his head was visible above his battered copy of _Thus Spake Zarathustra_. Every few seconds the dark-haired Grantaire would hit a bad note, causing the others to wince. Finally he managed to make his harp sound like an actual, y'know, _harp_ and struck up a lively Irish jig (which sounded rather out of place on the elegant intstrument).

Then, with a look in his eyes that could only be described as wild insanity, he began to strum gently on the strings of his harp—the first few bars of Whitney Houston's _I Will Always Love You._ Enjolras rolled his eyes and returned to his argument with Courfeyrac.

"But it makes sense to be called 'Les Amis De l'ABC,'" he whined. "I mean, that's what we call ourselves normally, so why not just use it as a band name?"

Courfeyrac had just opened his mouth to answer when they were interrupted. "AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS BELIEVE IN YOOOOOOOOOOU," Grantaire screamed, his voice scratchy and grating. Jehan paused in his close examination of his kidney tubule, shoving his fingers into his ears at the unpleasant sound.

"DID I FUCKING SAY YOU COULD SING GRANTAIRE NO I DID NOT SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN," roared Enjolras, cheeks reddening; Grantaire thought longingly of a Dominoes pizza, his craving for the yummy goodness inspired by Enjolras' golden mozzarella locks and tomato blush.

Combeferre flipped the page loudly, trying desperately not to actually kill his group of idiotic friends. Bahorel, meanwhile, was laughing hysterically at Grantaire's outburst of song; he let out a wild cheer.

"_Anyway_," Enjolras said, massaging his temples and turning back to Courfeyrac, "what's so bad about calling ourselves Les Amis De l'ABC?"

"I think we should be called Sausage Rolly Joly," said Jehan in his soft voice, eyes filling with tears as he remembered the poem he had composed only a week previously: An Ode to Sausage Rolls. It was his best work, and yet had only managed to garner a pathetic two notes on Tumblr. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his feed, trying desperately to find the heartbreakingly beautiful poem and realised with a shock that it was now up to three notes. "Finally," he whispered. "My masterpiece is being recognised."

"Is this about the sausage roll poem again?" Grantaire inquired, face alighting with a mischievous air.

"_Ma chère rouleau de saucisse,_  
_comment vous me enchanter ainsi._  
_Enseigne-moi tes secrets afin que moi aussi_  
_peut devenir aussi délicieux que vous êtes,__" _recited Jehan, wiping away the single tear that rolled down his cheek.

"For the last time, Jehan, nobody cares about your stupid sausage roll poem," Enjolras said, looking exasperated. "We have other things to attend to, most importantly the name of our band. Courfeyrac, you still haven't answered my question."

"Well, for one, it's a bloody stupid band name. I mean, what sort of band decides that they're going to be known to the world as The Friends of the Lowers? It sounds like we're friends with our nads or something."

Enjolras blushed at the suggestive statement and began spluttering. "It—it has nothing to do with _nads_, as you so eloquently say! Les Amis de l'ABC is devoted to giving freedom and equal rights to the people!"

"Don't listen to Courf," Bahorel supplied. "All he has the brain capacity to think about is his own lowers." He guffawed at his own joke, Grantaire joining in.

"Guys, I really think we should consider my idea," said Jehan, slightly irritated that they were all ignoring him.

"If you try to use my name in the same sentence as Sausage Rolly, I will actually die," Joly said, not looking up from his careful combing of Musichetta's hair.

Jehan pouted.

"What about Poland Is The Best Country Ever And If You Don't Think So, You're A Loser?" Feuilly asked. His jaunty pageboy cap had a tiny Polish flag stuck on it and little wisps of tawny hair were escaping from underneath it in various places.

"This is a band name, not a Fall Out Boy song, Feuilly," Courfeyrac said without looking at him.

"I think it should be called Ursula," Marius whispered, stroking a handkerchief that he had stolen after it fell from his one true love's father's pocket. Joly had been horrified to discover this fact, but today he rolled his eyes with the rest of the group.

"This isn't a fucking Disney film, Marius," Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras, at the same time, let out a frustrated groan and said, "Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive towards a larger goal. This band is more important than your _love life_, Marius. Our little lives don't count at all!"

"I've got a brilliant idea!" Grantaire announced, pausing in the middle of My Heart Will Go On. "How about Apollo's Fiery Ass?"

"No."

"What? I thought you liked the painting! Okay, fine. If you really want, we can be called KFC Is Better Than McDonald's, No Matter What Bahorel Says."

"No."

"But you're plucking my _harp_strings," Grantaire protested, winking exaggeratedly as he pointed to his harp. "Get it? No? No?"

Enjolras looked positively livid. "No. As much as I love KFC, I am not naming my band after them. You don't get a choice, Grantaire, and nor do the rest of you! This is between me and him." Here he jabbed one finger first at himself and then at Courfeyrac. "Why can't we be Les Amis De l'ABC? I mean, it's really catchy!"

"For the last time, you fucktruck, we're the Barricade Boyzz," Courfeyrac snarled.

Grantaire broke one of his harp strings. The café was silent for a while, all eyes on Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Jehan broke the silence first, whispering something about sausage rolls, and the rest gradually began chatting idly again.

"You know, if you're so worried about me having lice, why aren't you scared that you have them?" Musichetta mumbled, her voice muffled by Joly's jeans. The hypochondriac laughed.

"I don't think you have lice. I just like your hair. It makes a nice change, since Bossuet hasn't got any." He smiled at the bald man who sat next to him, bumping his shoulder.

"I think it might be growing back," Bossuet protested, running a hand over his smooth scalp.

It almost seemed as if the argument had been forgotten by all when Bahorel suddenly piped up. "I have a great name. Lady and gentlemen, boys and girl, prepare yourselves for the ultimate band name! The wonder of wonders!"

"Bahorel, get to the point or I will rip your arms off," Feuilly said, teeth gritted.

Bahorel grinned, spread his arms wide and said, quite simply, "The Fucktrucks."

Combeferre sighed.

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**A/N: Here is the link to this story's sorta-kinda predecessor, AKA Hot Sauce, Sun Butts, and Fried Chicken.**

** s/9565453/1/Hot-Sauce-Sun-Butts-and-Fried-Chicken**


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